


Cold Fish

by Rotpeach



Series: The Great Tumblr Rehoming of 2018 [30]
Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Other, Prostitution, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-27 17:11:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17165954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rotpeach/pseuds/Rotpeach
Summary: You aren't done until Vincent says you're done.





	Cold Fish

**Author's Note:**

> sequel to "baited hook," but takes place before "dog with sharper teeth"
> 
> title is a queen adreena track

It’s been _hours_.

You think it has been, anyway.

You’re not totally sure because you’re completely smashed and your sense of time got left behind at the bar after your seventh shot and you’re getting fucked into the mattress by that psycho what’s-his-face who made you suck him off in the bathroom for twenty dollars that one time. You were pretty sure it wasn’t going to be much different this time, but he promised you five times as much as before

(and yeah, there was a part of you that said, “ _bullshit_ ,” but you’re still broke and he’s still your only customer)

so you followed him to a motel and hoped there wouldn’t be bed bugs in the sheets.

And you can say with certainty that there aren’t. You would know by now.

“You’re kinda quiet,” he rasps, laughing against the tender skin of your shoulder and the bite marks he left there earlier. He’s had you on your knees all night, his hips slamming into you from behind. Your exhausted body sags against sheets damp with cum stains, your cheek pressed to the bed as you take quick, shuddering breaths and try to remember how to talk so you can ask him to ease up a little bit.

It probably wouldn’t matter if you could ask, though. He’s not the type to listen.

“You were so fucking loud earlier, too,” he groans, giving a slow roll of his hips that draws a whimper out of you. “Why don’t you make some noise for me again, huh, sweetheart?”

“Go fuck yourself,” you really want to say, but he grips your hair and yanks your head back, slamming into you the moment you open your mouth, and it all runs together into a garbled moan.

“Better,” he grunts, twisting your hair around his fist and grasping your hip with his other hand so you don’t move too much. Everything hurts. Your legs are straining and aching, your abdomen is sore and your scalp is burning. You’re not looking forward to how this is going to feel when the alcohol isn’t numbing everything.

You feel his grip tighten and his breath hitch as he drills his cock into you, losing rhythm in favor of harsh, uneven thrusts. He’s going to come again. You try to say something, but you just mewl pitifully and clutch the sheets, a puddle of drool forming beneath your head as it dribbles down your chin.

(He gave you his name this time when you stumbled into the motel room and he pressed you into the door the moment it shut, grinding against you so you could feel how hard he was already, but you can’t remember what the fuck it was anymore. Victor or something. Not that it matters.)

He mutters a curse under his breath as he ruts into you, and you feel strands of your hair come out between his fingers. His cock pulses inside of you before he suddenly pulls out, leaving you achingly empty, and you whimper when you feel his cum splatter over your back, some of it clumping together in your hair and dripping down your face.

Your body is tense and your mind foggy from overstimulation. You close your eyes and you hope that he’s finally, _finally_ done, listening to his breathing even out behind you and you finally start to relax.

“Fuck,” you hear him mutter, “that was good.”

Your heart sinks when you feel his hands on you again and you want to ask him how the fuck he isn’t satisfied yet but your words sound like incoherent mumbles to your own ears. He drapes himself over you, taking your wrists and holding them over your head, and he gives a few shallow, prodding thrusts against your entrance just to see you squirm.

He nudges your legs further apart and slams back into you, sheathing himself completely with one thrust. What begins as a stammered moan becomes a scream when his teeth clamp down on your abused shoulder and you feel him break the skin. Blood drips onto the sheets, and you think that whoever cleans the room is going to want to call the cops.

(You hope they do.)

“You thought we were done?” he says, laughing. “We’re not even close to done, sweetheart. Night’s still young, after all.” He starts to move inside of you again and your eyelids flutter as your vision begins to darken. You doubt he’ll stop just because you pass out.

You just hope he’ll remember to leave the money before he goes.


End file.
